


SALVATION

by Jaakkola



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad Roleplay, Fingerfucking, First Time, M/M, Religion Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rope Bondage, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29930190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaakkola/pseuds/Jaakkola
Summary: In a quite cathedral, long forgotten in Duskwood.
Relationships: Darion Mograine/Anduin Wrynn
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	SALVATION

**Author's Note:**

> girl help i was possessed.

It was a great testament to Darion’s trust that he was doing this.

He was kneeling against the smooth stone floor, arms bound tight behind him and a blindfold blocking out everything from his sight, save for the small slivers of soft light where the cloth didn’t fill the space from the crook of his nose to his face. His armor was gone, discarded somewhere within the cathedral, and Darion tried to think back as to when he felt this exposed. The latter half of his youth was spent at war, and while he had not been permitted to fight until he was fifteen—the age Renault had been, effectively giving their father no excuse to prevent Darion any further—he had rarely lacked armor. Now, all he wore were a pair of linen pants.

Soft footsteps from the right tore Darion from his reflection, and he resisted the urge to turn his head towards the sound. Instead, he traced the sound, listening to it grow closer. They circled Darion slowly, carefully, methodically. Darion kept still and just listened. For a moment, Darion felt a strangely human emotion, one that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Embarrassment? No, that wasn’t it, it was self-consciousness.

Darion was so very aware of the scars that he bore. The one from his first death, from Ashbringer, he had long since grown used to. Resting between his lower ribs was the never-healing scar born from equal parts necromantic and radiant energies, its twin only slightly off-kilter on his back. He didn’t wear it with pride, per se, but he felt no shame regarding it. The same couldn’t be said for the scars from his second death; the Light had seen to marking him, it seemed, letting everyone know the price of the sin he had committed.

He had lacked the proper vocabulary to describe what the scars were like. The radiant magic had burned itself into skin in the oddest places, thin white lines trailed from his fingertips before melding into his usual pallor around the wrist. They sprouted out from his first scar like roots from the base of a tree, and they thickened around his eyes, surrounding his glowing blue eyes with a mask of far too white skin, even for undead standards. While he was certain the blindfold hid the worst of it, he was equally certain that it didn’t hide all of it.

Gentle fingertips made contact with the underside of Darion’s jaw, warm and inviting as they traced along the stubble that hadn’t grown in the better part of a decade. It was a strange feeling… intimate, perhaps. Another thing Darion didn’t quite know how to describe. In life, he had committed himself to fighting the Scourge, and while Renault had found someone to fight for—to fight _with_ —during that short time, Darion neglected it. He had no idea how his living self would process such things, and that made it difficult for him now.

“There’s salvation in the Light, Highlord,” the priest told Darion, matter of fact.

The words pulled Darion from the slight daze he had been worked into from the thumb working circles against his jaw. He took a moment to find his voice, saying: “Is there, now? That’s news to me.”

He could almost feel the frown of genuine annoyance across Anduin’s face, and Darion considered that a win. He continued, “I died on holy ground I consecrated, priest. The Light made no effort to save me.”

“You did not wish to be saved.”

Darion inclined his head, just a fraction, and considered that. “I wished to save in the name of the Light, and I was not saved myself in my pursuit. Your Light picks and chooses, remember that.”

“Do not speak such blasphemy in this holy place,” the priest said, voice stern and commanding.

“Or what, priest?” Darion asked. “What will you do to stop me?”

The fingers at Darion’s jaw turned to a full hand, and his jaw was taken into a firm grip, pulling his face upwards. “On your knees,” the priest ordered.

Darion didn’t comply, just because he wanted to make things difficult. The priest let out a noise of annoyance and tugged Darion upward by his jaw, forcing him up from his relaxed position, and Darion pulled at the binds against his wrist out of instinct. “If you don’t wish to play nice, then I’ll simply give your mouth something to do,” the priest told him.

Darion knew what was coming. They had spoken on it at length before this. _I’m not so sure this is a good idea,_ Darion said. Anduin had waited for him to continue, and he did. _I’ve… I’ve never done something of this nature._

 _You mean… in life?_ Anduin had asked.

_Yes, but that’s not what I am particularly referring to. All undead are… twisted in some way. Some are driven to obsession over the taste of blood. Others have a hunger for the flesh of the living. Death knights were cursed with the need to spill blood, to inflict pain. I… don’t know how I’ll react to… something of that nature._

Anduin had hesitated, thinking it over. _Are you willing to try?_ _There’s no shame in stopping halfway through, but I don’t want you to be put into a situation you think will be unsafe._ In a bold move, Anduin reached over to take one of Darion’s gauntleted hands in his own. _It’s alright, if you don’t want to, I—_

Darion twisted his wrist to better grasp Anduin’s hand. _I do._

Anduin had a way of making Darion feel human like nothing else could, of feeling alive again. It was an intoxicating feeling that Darion only wanted more of, and he’d be willing to try anything Anduin suggested, in hopes of having that feeling once again.

There was the sound of cloth rustling from in front of Darion. Knuckles brushed against his cheek, and he parted his lips to take in the head of the priest’s cock in his mouth. He hadn’t done this before, but it seemed relatively straightforward. His main worry, however, seemed realized with the taste of hot flesh on his tongue. Immediately came the insistent feeling to bite, to draw any blood he could. He tried to focus on fighting down the urge as he worked his tongue along the priest’s length. He dug his nails into his palms as the ever-present need grew to hurt him, to hear him cry out in pain, to—

Darion pulled away abruptly, sitting back and squeezing his eyes shut as he turned his head. Anduin, thankfully, seemed to understand. “Are you alright?” he asked, voice quiet.

Darion stayed still, neither confirming nor denying. His whole body ached with a dull throb.

It was silent for a long time. “Would you like to stop entirely?”

“I just need a moment,” Darion replied.

Anduin withdrew farther, probably for the best, and his footfalls were almost silent as he retreated elsewhere into the room. Darion knew he was still with him, lingering, waiting for the proper moment. Darion gathered himself, tampering down on the frenzy growing inside him. He loathed the eternal hunger, how it clawed at him every waking moment, and he would not let it destroy this moment.

It took Darion a bit to realize that Anduin was waiting for Darion to make the first move. Understandable, death knights didn’t have the same visual cues their living counterparts displayed for the more nuanced emotion changes, and waiting for Darion’s go ahead to continue would be the safest way to proceed. The problem was that Darion didn’t _quite_ know how to proceed with the little game they were playing with this. In nearly every aspect, he was out of his element here.

“So, that’s what gets you off, then?” Darion asked, trying his best to sound like he hadn’t just had to convince himself not to bite down on the cock that was in his mouth for all of twenty seconds. “The thought of _purifying_ the defiled?”

There was no response. Darion knew Anduin was in the room; with how fired up his hunger was, he could tell someone living still lingered nearby. “Lose your nerve, priest?”

Silence. Perhaps he did. A pang of regret took root in Darion, and just as he was about to call all this off and just head back to Acherus, the priest’s voice came from behind Darion. “On your feet,” he ordered, and if Darion was a living man, he would have jumped. He didn’t hear the priest move behind him.

It was a little difficult, rising to his feet with his hands bound behind him. The priest put a hand on Darion, helping him up by the upper arm. Once he was on his feet, the priest’s hand trailed down to the mark across his forearm, brushing his fingertips across it before returning to his upper arm. _What is that?_ Anduin had asked as he was binding Darion.

 _A remnant from when I was Scourge,_ Darion had answered. Kel’thuzad enjoyed branding his property, and he made sure that the finest death knights all had a distinctive mark carved across the inside of their left forearm: a crude arrow, more like the letter A than anything else, pointing west. _Most of the older death knights have them._ Anduin was silent after that, and Darion didn’t think much more of it.

“I don’t think you’re one that should be speaking on what gets me off,” the priest said as he led Darion further. Darion let himself be guided, going with the priest’s movements as he turned Darion around completely and pushed him against a table. Not a table, the altar. “Especially not with this.” The priest pushed a warm palm between Darion’s legs, shocking Darion with the fact that despite the earlier hiccup, and despite his undead state, he was undoubtedly hard.

Well, surprises all around then. Darion wondered if it showed on his face.

The priest pulled Darion’s linen pants down to his ankles before a firm hand found Darion’s shoulder, pushing him down across the altar. Darion complied, if only to be mouthy. “What are you going to do, huh? Open me up with holy water?”

Anduin broke character. “Water should never be used to—”

“I’m trying to dirty talk you to your level of depravity,” Darion interrupted with a growl. “Don’t turn this into a lecture. I don’t care.”

Anduin snorted, inelegant and ill-fitting for a king. The pop of a cork from its bottle followed, and it didn’t take long for a familiar smell to reach Darion’s noise. It reminded him of his childhood, of time spent far from here. “Are you using anointing oil?”

“It hasn’t been blessed yet,” Anduin assured.

“And here I thought we were going for realism.”

That brought another snort from Anduin. “I don’t know what blessed oil does if it’s applied to undead flesh, and I don’t think this is where one would want find out.” Darion’s legs are gently pressed apart. “If you need me to pause or stop—”

“You’ll know.”

A soft hand caressed the inside of Darion’s thigh. There was a sense of hesitation, one born from the living trying to fit their definitions for the unliving. Darion waited there, laying against the altar in anticipation. He wondered, absently, if he’d ever dare this if he was alive, if he’d commit such a perverse act in a holy place.

The priest suddenly pressed a kiss to Darion’s inner thigh, surprising him to the point of nearly jerking away. They were soft, almost chaste, despite the warm finger that began to circle his rim. It was strange to feel another person against his skin, and in such an intimate way. He had never done something like this before. His skin felt electrically charged, and every placed touched set off sparks. There was still the need to try hurting Anduin burning in the back of his mind, and it mingled in a strange way with the pleasure that had begun to pool in the pit of his stomach.

A finger worked its way inside Darion as the kisses turned to open mouth ones, the priest occasionally stopping to suck a mark into the soft skin. Darion’s fingers flexed uselessly underneath him in an effort to do… Darion didn’t even know what he’d do with his hands free. From how he was positioned, he could just make out the priest’s golden hair from underneath the blindfold, warm and rich in the candlelight. A second finger joined in, slowly working Darion open, working him apart.

A particularly sudden twist of the fingers is paired with the priest biting down, and the actions drew a curse from Darion. “Watch your language,” the priest said, as if Darion couldn’t feel the smug smile against his skin.

“Fuck you,” Darion spat. That earned Darion another twist, and he cursed again, quieter this time. It was hard to believe that Anduin was this skilled with his fingers. Perhaps that was Darion’s own inexperience showing. _“Light above,”_ Darion gasped, back arching as Anduin did something that was quite frankly witchcraft.

“Do not take the Light’s name in vain,” Anduin snapped.

“Or what? What will you do?” Darion snapped back. He felt Anduin’s other hand on his thigh as the priest rose to his feet.

“You’re quite bold to be spouting such things in a holy place.” Despite his chiding, he still worked his fingers into Darion with an insistence. “You’re at the Light’s mercy here, at _my_ mercy.”

Darion took a labored breath from the exertion—he couldn’t even remember the last time he _did that—_ before he spoke. “I’m right, this does get you off. You like the thought of—” he paused as Anduin did that thing that made Darion bite down on a groan, his fingernails biting into his palms once again. “—like the thought of purifying the defiled, of bathing the corrupted in your precious Light.”

Anduin’s eyes were on him now, he could feel it just as well as he could feel Anduin’s warm hands against his flushed skin. “You’re the one being undone by this,” Anduin said, but the heaviness of his voice betrayed him. Regardless, his words were true, Darion’s certain that his synapses are failing; emotional remnants from life were viciously fighting with the endless hunger that was rooted deep in his undeath. So deeply did he want to bite down on the skin at Anduin’s throat, to hear him gasp in surprise and pain, to feel hot blood against his tongue, but at the same time he deeply wanted to feel Anduin's skin against his own, to hear his own noises of pleasure, to _be_ the reason while those noises were made.

In an effort to compose himself, Darion closed his eyes and pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. It didn’t do much, especially not when Anduin’s free hand grasped Darion’s erection. He let out a strangled groan, the heat of pleasure growing within him as Anduin stroked him quickly, still not letting up with the fingers inside him. Light, it was too much, all Darion could do was gasp and writhe underneath Anduin’s touch as he reached the precipice, the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears.

With a sound that Darion would vehemently deny if ever asked on it, everything in him seized up, convulsing with whatever passed as an orgasm for the undead. Anduin eased him through it, muttering quiet praises until Darion stilled.

“I think,” Anduin started after a considerable amount of silence, tone light, “this brought some color to your cheeks.”

Darion tried to cover his face with an arm before remembering that his hands were still bound underneath him. He settled for a discontent grumble instead.

“How was that?” Anduin continued.

“That went… farther than I anticipated,” Darion admitted. “I… thank you.”

Anduin leaned over Darion, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Of course.”

* * *

“There you are,” Whitemane said. Darion looked up from the reports that littered the command table, catching her piercing gaze. “We were talking bets on if you died once more or not.”

Darion rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the reports. “I wasn’t even gone for most of the evening.”

“You left without a word as to where you’d be,” Whitemane said, joining Darion at the command table. “It piqued all our curiosities.”

“I was meeting with someone who needed a member of the Ebon Blade,” Darion said, “and I needed to go out and sate my hunger regardless. I thought I would just go and lend the aid myself.”

Whitemane seemed to accept that answer, glancing down to the papers on the table. The silence grew between them for a long moment before Whitemane furrowed her brows. “Why do you smell like anointing oil?”


End file.
